


Concerning Love

by bluspirits



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Courtly Love, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Post-Wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 11:43:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21427666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluspirits/pseuds/bluspirits
Summary: For Sir Gawain and Dame Ragnelle, courtship came rather late in their relationship.
Relationships: Gawain/Dame Ragnelle
Comments: 18
Kudos: 46
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Concerning Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RobberBaroness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobberBaroness/gifts).

> I am always a slut for courtly love stuff (fucked up stuff aside), so I just had to include some of that in here!
> 
> The inspiration was partly Barbara Tuchman's stages of courtly love: Attraction to the lady, usually via eyes/glance, Worship of the lady from afar, Declaration of passionate devotion, Virtuous rejection by the lady, Renewed wooing with oaths of virtue and eternal fealty, Moans of approaching death from unsatisfied desire (and other physical manifestations of lovesickness), Heroic deeds of valor which win the lady's heart, Consummation of the secret love, Endless adventures and subterfuges avoiding detection
> 
> Thank you so much for the wonderful prompts, I had a great time writing this! I hope you enjoy it and have a wonderful winter/holiday season!! Thanks for reading!

It is a week after their wedding, and the breaking of her curse, and Gawain finds himself staring at his lady wife. 

He looks over at Ragnelle where she sits, idly reading some book she found somewhere within the castle. He thinks the glance is out of some kind of worry, that he will look over and her face will have changed. It has only been a few days, and he is no expert on magic, so he does not truly know if the spell has been broken. It is only natural that he would seek to look at her whenever he had the opportunity. 

She glances up at him, and he is caught for a moment in her stare. He smiles back at her, after a second's hesitation. 

“How are you finding Camelot?” he asks, caught in the act of staring and desperate for an escape. 

She looks down at her book. “It is very beautiful here.” 

“But?” he asks, because he is sure she has a stronger opinion than that.

“But I am not used to it.” She pauses, as if considering her next words. “I feel that everyone is watching me, judging me.”

“I am sure they do not mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Her mouth turns down into a frown. He has said something wrong. “And yet, they do.”

With sharp eyes, she catches him in her gaze. “You are watching me too.” 

“I’m sorry,” he says, unsure what else there is to say. She simply nods. 

“I will try not to.”

But he finds he cannot stop. 

* * *

Dame Ragnelle stands in the courtyard below him, made small by his distance in the tower overlooking the space. 

A knight approaches her, Bedivere, by his colors. He says something to Ragnelle, and she responds, arms moving as she speaks. There’s a few more words exchanged, none of which Gawain can hear. Ragnelle crosses her arms, and Bedivere stalks away. Gawain, with no idea what had just been said, laughs a little as Ragnelle resumes her watch over the courtyard, apparently untroubled. 

He can imagine her talking down the bravest knights of the court, arms crossed and tongue sharp, and for some reason, he does not feel mortified at the thought of having a wife with no courtly manners, but instead can’t help smiling at the thought of Ragnelle putting Sir Kay in his place. 

The next day, he spots her in the great hall, leaning against a column and watching people pass by. Lancelot is trying to engage him in conversation about some tournament or other, but Gawain finds his eyes drawn back to Ragnelle consistently, though she hasn’t noticed him yet in the vast space of the hall. 

Lancelot notices the cause of his distraction and laughs. “A wonderful marriage you two are having, staring at each other from across the room. If I had not seen better, I would think you lovestruck.”

Gawain turns back to his friend as if struck. “I care for her.”

“No one is saying you don’t. But it's an adjustment, is it not?”

“Do you mean the marriage, or her appearance?” Gawain asks after a second. 

Lancelot shrugs, and stares at Gawain’s wife as well. “Either.”

“I am not fit to give you advice, but I wish you and your wife good luck,” Lancelot says, turning to leave, earlier conversation forgotten. 

Ragnelle still stands there, and he thinks at this distance it would not matter the state of her face. She stands with easy confidence, the dangerous grace of someone who knows how to survive on their own, and there is something that draws his eye to her no matter how much he tries to look away. 

Her head turns, and he thinks that her eyes meet his. Unsure, he gives a small wave. Her shoulders fold in laugh that echoes through the chamber, and she waves back. 

He finds that what he said to Lancelot is no false assurance. He truly does care for her. 

* * *

Gawain and Ragnelle are drawn apart at the feast that night, his fellow knights taking him by the shoulders and marching him to their table. Ragnelle’s fingers slip from his grasp as Guinevere and her favored ladies lead her to the opposite side of the hall. 

His eyes are constantly drawn back to where she sits though as he eats and laughs. It takes the words of his king to pull him from his vigil. 

Arthur looks at him, having noticed where his attention is focussed, and Gawain straightens under his gaze. “You and your lady, you are happy?” he asks, and his eyes move over to where Guinevere is conversing with Ragnelle. 

Gawain nods. 

Arthur takes a slow, measured breath. “I would ask you to be honest with me. Or at least, use more words.” 

“I-” he looks down at the table, and Lancelot claps him hard on the back, knocking him forward and begins to laugh. He can see his brothers smirking at him, several knights down the table from him. 

He meets the king’s eyes. “We are very happy, your majesty.”

“And very convincing too,” Lancelot says with a smile, hand still on Gawain’s back. 

“It is true, I swear it.”

“I would hate to think I have placed a terrible unhappiness upon one of my knights,” Arthur says after a moment, no longer looking at Gawain. 

He hurries to reassure his king. “There is no unhappiness within me. In fact, I thank you for the match.”

“Yes, it turned out quite well in the end, didn’t it?” Kay joins the conversation, “Though I remember how she appeared at first. And the breaking of the spell does not seem to have improved her manners one bit.”

“And yet she is still far smarter and kinder than a churl like you, and probably worth more in battle as well,” he snaps back without thinking, feeling anger overcome him. 

He can hear a whispered, “Ah, here comes the defender of women,” from somewhere in the crowd of knights, but makes no effort to figure out where the words come from, the point of his anger directed at Kay, who says nothing. 

He bares his teeth. “And I would thank you not to insult the woman I love in front of me.”

Arthur smiles to himself. Gawain leans back, into Lancelot’s steadying hand, and exhales, fingers trembling with the last hint of anger. 

Ragnelle looks across the room, directly at Gawain, her mouth parted slightly. It looks as if she has heard his words, except for the fact that within this crowded hall, that would be impossible. He straightens under her gaze and smiles at her. 

* * *

"Would you like to go to Orkney?" he asks one night, as they lie beside each other. 

Ragnelle turns over and frowns at him. "Is it not expected for me to meet your family?"

"Well," he pauses, unsure, "yes, but it is a long journey, and you haven't had very much time to settle into court here, so I just thought-" 

She laughs just a little, and he stops talking. 

She opens her mouth as if to stop talking before closing it without saying anything. It takes several more seconds before she actually speaks. "I appreciate the asking." 

“Sovereignty,” Gawain says with a small laugh.

“It means more than that and you know it,” she says, voice suddenly sharp.

He nods, a thread of shame running through him. 

She stares up at the ceiling, and he can’t tell what she is thinking of. He thinks he may have just ruined things quite completely. Finally she answers, "I would like to visit Orkney." 

He breathes a short sigh of relief. 

“I am sorry,” He says, desperate to make her understand that regrets what he has said. It seems the wrong way to start a journey. “I do not mean to make light of it. Sovereignty, I mean.”

“I know. But you do not understand it, so you do anyway.” She does not look at him. 

He does not know what to say, and before he can speak, Ragnelle has fallen asleep, her snores filling the bedchamber. Gawain tries to find the same rest. 

"Tell me of Orkney," she says the next morning, standing with him as they watch Gareth and Lancelot spar. The clash of swords try to interrupt her words, but he can hear only her voice. 

"You will see it soon enough. Tell me of your forest," he says. 

"You have seen it yourself already.” She smiles at this, though he isn’t sure the emotion she is feeling is truly happiness. 

"But not the way you know it." He looks at his brother in an attempt to avoid her eyes. “I do not know whether to apologize for the taking of the land from your brother, but they are your forests now.”

“Are they?” she asks, also staring ahead at the knights. 

He nods. “Truly, whatever is mine is yours as well.”

She grants him a slightly bitter smile. “If only the rest of the world believed that as surely as you seem to.” 

Once again, he has no answer. 

“Very well. The forest was vast and quiet. The animals peaceful, the travelers few. I lived in peace, among the tallest trees you have ever seen. It was simple and it was beautiful. And no one there cared one bit what I looked like."

"I do not care what you look like." It feels like the right thing to say, but it sticks in his mouth like honey, like a lie. 

Ragnelle smirks. It isn’t an unkind expression, but it holds no sympathy for him. "A nice lie, sir, but true as any maiden desires sovereignty, any man cares for nothing but what a woman looks like. Not her words, not her feelings, not her mind."

“I suppose you would know.”

She glances at him, eyes sharp. “I am not some lesson that you must learn, Sir Gawain. I am simply a person.”

He shakes his head. “I will endeavor to be better.”

“I would hope so.” She meets his eyes, unflinching as always. “And I will hope that that will be enough for things to change.”

* * *

Gareth and Gaheris join them on their journey to Orkney, though Agravain and Mordred elect to stay behind. 

Ragnelle insists on riding on her own, and before long they have split into two groups, with Gareth and Gaheris at the front, and Gawain and Ragnelle several meters behind them. When they reach a small river, Gareth and Gaheris have already forded it, and their horses stand on the other side as from the woods around them, a roar is heard, bringing Gawain and Ragnelle’s horses to a nervous stop. 

A small dragon emerges from the woods, slinking low to the ground and growling. The monster blocks the path, a furious red with glowing coal eyes that spits fire at them and scares the horses. On the other side of the river, Gaheris and Gareth shout at them, though he can’t make out what they are trying to tell him. 

He draws his sword, steps down from his horse, and positions himself in front of Ragnelle. When he looks at her though, she has also slipped from the saddle to stand next to him, knife in hand. 

While he is staring at Ragnelle, the dragon lunges, and he barely gets his sword up in time to stop its teeth from sinking into his arm. While the creature has its teeth wrapped around his blade, Rangelle moves, sinking her dagger into its side. It hisses, and backs away. 

Gawain takes the opportunity to make a swing of his own, driving the beast further back. Ragnelle shifts beside him. He swings again, and takes off one of its wings. As it writhes on the ground, Ragnelle strikes, faster than he would have thought possible, plunging her blade into the thing’s skull. It collapses, twitching. 

There’s a cheer from the other side of the river, and both Ragnelle and Gawain let out a deep breath, and he lowers his weapon. Ragnelle stares at the dagger still embedded in the dragon’s skull. 

“My one good dagger,” she sighs, and Gawain laughs just a little. 

He removes a knife from his belt and kneels before her, holding it out as an offering. “As a sign of my eternal devotion, my sovereign lady.”

“Ah, but I have no favor to give you in return,” she says with a small laugh, weighing the knife in skilled hands. 

“I need nothing from you, my lady, except perhaps a sign of your affection.” He smiles as he says it, asking her to understand that he is joking, that he does not mean to pressure her in any way. 

Ragnelle smiles back. “And if I say no?”

He clutches at his chest dramatically, and feigns swooning. “Then I shall depart, and suffer in silence for the rest of my days.”

She laughs at his display, then slips the knife somewhere into the folds of her dress and takes his hands, helping him to stand. “Well, I should hate to cause the suffering of such a good knight.”

With that, she leans forward and kisses him, the barest press of her lips to his, but he feels as though he is being led to heaven. 

“I could give you one of my sleeves,” she says, leaning back and grinning, “or my girdle.”

“Ah-” He blushes, looking down at the ground for a second. “Please don’t.”

She laughs once again, and he feels as though he could float away. “I feel as though there is a story there.”

“There is, but maybe not one for when I am trying to appear quite so chivalrous.”

“You will tell me later, then?” she asks, and there it is simply a question, with no expectation or pressure. 

He nods. “I promise.”

That night, Gareth and Gaheris place themselves on either side of him, shoulder to shoulder in front of the fire, whispering back and forth as Ragnelle stands by the horses, offering Gringolet an apple. 

Gareth is grinning widely, and Gawain finds himself smiling back. His brother laughs, and says, far louder than his previous words, “Congratulations on your marriage, brother. We had all half thought that you would never marry, only maybe settle down with another knight.”

Gawain gazes over at Ragnelle, and thinks of the knife hidden in her gown and the callouses on her fingers that no lifting of a spell had been able to erase. “She is worth several knights by herself.”

Gaheris scoffs. “You know very well what he meant.”

Gawain does, but he does not grant Gaheris the pleasure of a response. 

“Ah, Dame Ragnelle,” Gareth calls, waving a hand at her. “Come join your husband and brothers by the fire.”

Ragnelle is smiling, teeth showing, and Gawain knows she has heard their conversation from where she stands, caring for the horses. She approaches, and sits on the ground a few feet from the three men, a decision he knows is not out of propriety, but discomfort with the near strangers that are his brothers. 

“I heard you spent your years in the wild forest before coming to Camelot and our good brother. Surely you have stories of your time there?” Gareth asks, making no mention of Ragnelle’s appearance when she came to Camelot and taking a long drink from his wineskin. 

Ragnelle looks at Gawain, and he wills her to understand that as much as he loves his brothers, he will send them away if she does not want to speak. But she smiles finally. A small, polite smile, but one all the same. 

“Once, I hunted a boar whose size and strength, I’m sure, would put all the hunts of your knights to shame.”

“A bold claim, my lady,” Gaheris says with mock offense, gesturing for Ragnelle to continue. 

“It was as large as Gringolet there, and vicious as well. It had arrows from previous hunts stuck to its hide, and the shaft of a spear though part of its back, but it still walked. I would not have bothered it, but it had cut through the forest, disturbing the ground where I hunted and attacking anything it saw. It took me several days to track it.”

“When I finally came upon it, it was eating the corpse of horse, lost in the woods. I do not know what had happened to its rider, but if they were near, they did not show themselves. I snuck up on it from above, within the branches of the trees, and fired three arrows into its back. They had no effect but angering him. He charged, and slammed his tusks into the tree, nearly knocking me to the ground. I jumped to another branch just before he brought the entire tree down. For two whole days it pursued me, it on the ground, and me within the branches. If I even thought about stopping, it sought to bring the whole forest down around me.”

“On the second night, I slipped, and fell to the ground. It was on me in an instant, and its tusks left me this.” She lifts her sleeve to reveal a deep and poorly healed scar down her forearm. Gawain’s fingers twitch with the desire to reach for her. 

“I was underneath it, and with great struggle, I managed to pull my knife, and plunge it into the beast’s throat. I ate well that night.”

Gareth gives her a small round of applause, and Gawain watches the light from the fire dance across her face. “Well told, my lady.”

“Our brother is lucky to have found a match such as you,” Gaheris says next, and hands her his wineskin. She hesitates for a second, but takes a long drink, smiling. 

“To the bravest knight and lady in the land, and their lasting union!” Gareth calls, before falling backwards into the grass, pulling Gawain and Gaheris down with him. 

* * *

His chest has been paining him for some time now. He does not know why. He has not been injured or ill recently, yet all the same, he feels a dull ache in his chest that does not abate. 

It begins just after they leave for Ornkey, and persists for the entire journey. Sometimes he goes hours without any pain, and sometimes it is so strong he almost falls from his saddle. 

Even after their arrival in Orkney, he still cannot escape the pain. Otherwise however, the visit goes well. 

Orkney is no Camelot, certainly, but Ragnelle doesn’t have the patience for another Camelot, so her introduction to King Lot and Queen Morgause goes quite well. 

Three days after their arrival, he finds himself overcome with weakness, his head pounding. Ragnelle glances at home over dinner, and suddenly, he is struck with pain, his heart seizing in his chest. He does not remember much after his collapse, only her hands, strong and commanding, leading him to bed. 

He dreams of her, both beautiful and ugly in equal parts, and he loves her all the same. He wakes burning up with fever. 

She stands over him, frowning, and he reaches out for her. 

A wet cloth is pressed to his forehead, and he can feel hands on his shoulders, holding him down. From a few feet away, he can hear Ragnelle coughing. 

He can feel her breath against his burning skin. “You are a knight, Gawain. Of the Round Table, of King Arthur. You will not be struck down by some fever.”

“You are stronger than this.”

Her hand is joined with his, and she presses a kiss to his lips as he slips off into a restless sleep. He wakes the next morning, fever broken, lips still burning with the memory of her touch. 

* * *

He has had an anger inside of him his whole life. A dark, violent rage that he cannot sate, not by praying, not by fighting, not by loving. He has mastered it, he believes, and it does not rule him, but it is always there all the same. 

It is like an old friend, always waiting with open arms when he finds himself unhappy, or in danger. But most of all, it finds him when something has happened to his family. He knows that his brothers are knights in their own right, some of the best in the kingdom, but a threat to them makes his blood burn. 

And so, when Gareth returns from a simple trip with the bones of his sword arm nearly shattered and a tale of a knight in strange colors attacking travelers upon the road, Gawain finds himself with his sword in his hands before he truly knows what he’s doing. 

Ragnelle finds him as he is mounting his horse, on his way to enforce vengeance. 

“Where are you going?”

“After the man who hurt my brother,” he answers, kicking his horse into a trot. Ragnelle snatches up his hand before he can move, keeping him and Gringolet in place. 

“Wait.” It is a command, and Gawain finds himself bound by it. He watches as she dashes off, and sits in the courtyard on his horse for several minutes before Ragnelle returns at a run, holding a longbow and quiver of arrows. She straps the quiver to his saddle, and without thinking, he reaches out a hand to help left her onto the back of the horse. 

They do not speak on the ride, Gawain’s blood thrumming with anger and tension. 

The fight with the knight is short, Gawain running on pure anger, his swings made wild and deadly, especially with Ragnelle perched atop Gringolet, keeping a constant rain of arrows on the knight, forcing him onto a permanent defensive. When it is over, he is left feeling empty and tired, and he kneels on the ground, staring at the land around him without really seeing it. 

Ragnelle places a hand on his shoulder. It is several minutes before he rises. When he is finally up, and able to take in his surroundings, he looks around, to find that they are quite near the beaches he once visited as a boy. Excitement moves to replace his anger. 

“Here, I have something I’d like to show you,” he says, and Ragnelle frowns at him and his sudden change in attitude, but nods. 

It takes several minutes of trekking across the rocky ground, but they quickly come to the beach he had wanted to show her. 

Seals lay sunning themselves on the sand, which is strewn with kelp. The waves come often, filling his ears with the sounds of the ocean. All around him are his goal, what he wanted Ragnelle to see, the island’s wild sheep. They wander the beach, rams, ewes, and lambs, picking at the seaweed. 

Ragnelle’s face lights up, and Gawain feels warm, despite the wind of the ocean. She approaches the sheep, and they do not run, allowing her to sink her fingers into their wool. She wanders the beach for several minutes, wind whipping her hair. Gawain sits upon a rock and watches, while several sheep slowly come closer to him. 

Ragnelle looks up from the ram she is petting. “Did you spend much of your childhood here?”

Gawain shakes his head. “I traveled quite a bit. To Rome, to Camelot. I did not have as much time here as I would have liked.”

“Ah, I was imagining a childhood spent herding sheep on the beach.” She smiles. “It was quite a wonderful image, a little knight and his wild charges.”

“And you? Where did you grow up?”

“Circumstances kept me within the forest. I did not travel much. This is the farthest away I’ve been.” She looks out at the ocean. 

“I am sorry.”

As he speaks, one young ram bumps into a seal, and is driven away by its barking, running back up the beach to the rest of its flock. Another headbuts Gawain, nearly toppling him over into the sand. 

“They seem to have quite a bit in common with Orkney boys,” Ragnelle says idly, her fingers still tangled up in the ram’s wool.

Gawain frowns. “Should I be offended?”

“No,” she says, grinning at him. “I happen to quite like Orkney boys.”

* * *

Ragnelle helps him remove his armour that night.

“Ragnelle,” he breathes, and despite them being married it feels dangerously intimate, to step beyond the playful wall of ‘sirs’ and ‘my ladies’ that had formed a clever barrier between them and their feelings.

“Yes, Gawain?”

“I think that I love you.” He watches her face, but cannot read her reaction, so he continues. 

“I understand that you were not offered much choice in this arrangement. By Arthur, by your brother, by the world. And that in taking your answer and your hand in marriage, we have denied you the very answer you gave us. I know this is not sovereignty.”

Rangelle’s mouth parts slightly, and Gawain hurries ahead before she can interrupt him. “It is not enough for me to give you the choice over your appearance. I must give you every choice. If you do not want to be bound to me, I will let you go, I will take you anywhere you would like, all you must do is say the word.”

She shakes her head and her eyes squeeze shut. “Oh, Gawain, you are learning.”

There is a pause which feels like the longest moment of his life as he waits for his lady to tell him his fate. Finally, she lets out a shaky laugh and takes a hold of his hand. “I think that I love you too.”

He blinks. “_Oh_. Oh, thank God.”

She kisses him, and that night, they are, for the first time, truly joined as husband and wife. 

* * *

As they ride back to Camelot, they find themselves called upon by the people of the land they pass through with various pleas. At Ragnelle’s urging, they find their trip extended by weeks as they hunt down kidnapped maidens, fight vicious monsters, and drive away marauders and corrupt knights. 

When Camelot is finally in sight, they once again find their path blocked by a lion, as big as their horses, with claws stained from the blood of past battles. 

The beast before them roars, and Ragnelle’s horse rears up, almost throwing her from the saddle. It scratches at the ground, and its tail twitches as it prepares to attack. 

Ragnelle pulls an arrow from the quiver hanging from her saddle and notches it, every inch the terrible lady of the forest he had first been promised to. 

“Ready?” she asks. 

Gawain nods, sword in hand. 

Together they advance, a knight and his wife, a warrior and her husband, both equal, both sovereign, both in love.

**Author's Note:**

> [Orkney's feral sheep](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/North_Ronaldsay_sheep)


End file.
